Page 5 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

MILES

There is nothing quite like spending the afternoon at a park for a small-town classic car show when you’re tracking a courier connected to a forged-access network. Sure, it’s not too dissimilar from a classic car show in a bigger town— the cars gleaming on the grass with hoods open, their owners in folding chairs beside them like proud fathers at a graduation ceremony. The smells of cut grass, kettle corn, sunscreen, and motor oil in the air.

But only in a small town—like this one in Tanner’s Bend, Virginia—do you get a band in the center of the park made up entirely of retired classic car guys who are attempting what I think is a rockabilly version of the Beach Boys’ Little Deuce Coupe.

In my jeans, flannel shirt over a tee, vintage-looking Tanner’s Bend Auto Parts cap, and sunglasses, I fit right in with the crowd. Enough so that the owner of the 1965 marina mist blue Pontiac GTO that I’m chatting with is totally buying my cover story. He’s even giving me details about rebuilding the carburetor as if I understand what he’s talking about. I do not.

I think it’s the hat. Local details matter. That, or the phone holster on my belt I’m wearing just for this occasion. I think GTO man and I have matching ones.

We connect over the struggle of having too many projects all vying for attention at the same time. Which is working well, because while admiring his car, I’ve had a good view of the entire park for the past six minutes. My sunglasses are dark enough that I’ve been able to keep an eye on the crowds here while appearing as though all my attention is on my new friend, Lee.

I can even see Kella, my partner/intelligence operative trainee for this mission, from where she’s manning the registration table. She’s eager and capable, but the way she keeps straightening the already straight registration forms betrays how inexperienced she is. But she’s stubborn enough to become excellent at anything she finds important. Plus, she collects feedback the way other people collect souvenirs.

This is the perfect first mission for her, because it’s nice and simple. The courier we’re tracking works for an operation that supplies high-end forged identities and access credentials. He’s meeting an unknown contact right here at the Tanner’s Bend Turnip Days Classic Car Show. The mission is to identify the contact, document the exchange, and not intervene. As long as the courier thinks no one is watching, he can keep leading us to customers.

As always, Nora, my tech op who’s back at the Clandestine Services Agency building in Maryland, has eyes and ears everywhere. She says in my comms, “Courier just entered from the north path. Tan cargo shorts, gray cap, just behind the registration table.”

I wait until Lee turns to say hello to another car enthusiast, then say, “Copy.”

Kella mumbles “Copy” as well, and smooths out some papers on the table, trying to surreptitiously watch the courier as he passes beside her table and heads along the circle of cars.

“And Miles?” Nora says.

“Yes?”

“I’m not saying you can’t adopt your new friend. I mean, clearly you two have bonded over his car’s ability to do donuts on dry pavement. But let’s finish the mission first.”

I’ve already shaken Lee’s hand and moved on to see other cars when I reply, “Being an intelligence operative is about making connections with people. Luckily, I can bond and surveil at the same time. It’s a gift.”

“We’ll have to agree to disagree on that point,” Nora says. For her, being a good spy is all about the gathering of information. And she rarely sees my ability to connect with people as a gift.

I’m walking past grandparents telling their grandkids not to touch the paint, and more than one person saying, “They just don’t make them like this anymore.” I stop and crouch next to a turquoise and white 1957 Chevy Bel Air as if the whitewall tires require admiration, because it gives me a better view of the courier. I keep my eyes roving over all the people, trying to guess who he might be meeting.

“He’s carrying something in the right pocket of his cargo shorts,” Kella says as she leaves the registration desk in the hands of the actual volunteer and meanders in the direction of the courier. “Envelope-sized, but folded in half. Something thicker than paper is inside. Maybe a key fob or a USB drive.”

“Good,” I murmur. She was Ledger’s tech op for eighteen months, so she’s used to looking for this kind of thing. “What else do you see?”

“He has checked the natural exits toward the parking lots at the north and east twice. He has a limp, but I think it’s fake. And he keeps putting his hand on that pocket, like he wants to make sure the envelope is still there.”

“All useful,” I say as I stand again, so this car’s owner doesn’t come over to see what I’m up to.

“But?” Kella asks. She’s so eager to know how to improve. That’s good.

“The envelope isn’t the important part,” I say. “Relationships are. Keep watching for any.”

My own words make my mind wander to Reese, of course. Probably because she’s never far from my mind, including this very minute as the courier stops to look at a deep orange Mustang.

Especially the texting conversation we had a couple of minutes ago. She asked, If you could know the answer to one mystery right now, what would it be?

Reese thinks I’m currently toiling away at my cover job as Director of Client Relations at the family business, Lancaster Business Solutions, just outside of Cipher Springs, Maryland. Not 160 miles away, watching a courier through a crowd of chrome bumpers and turnip decorations, my tech op in my ear as she guides a mission.

I’d lied when I told her I needed to think about it. I didn’t then, and I don’t now. It’s whether Reese Wilder has ever looked at me and seen something other than her best friend.

But I can’t type that. Not if I want to keep being the person she texts about all the things that happen during her day, hang out with her in the evenings, and pretend I’m not affected every time her shoulder presses against mine, or she grabs my arm, or she flops on the couch with her legs across my lap.

I say into my comms, “Courier is moving again.” Things with Reese are complicated. The courier is immediate. “Keep an eye on who he’s trying not to look at.”

“Listen to Miles,” Nora says. “He’s usually right.”